


Golden hour

by Clairianne



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:35:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4507980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clairianne/pseuds/Clairianne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the distance, sun is slowly hiding behind the buildings of La Defense district, painting the sky with every shade of orange and red he can possibly imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden hour

That evening is everything he could ever wanted from his life and from Paris. From his point of view, lying on a heated rooftop of his apartment building, Combeferre can see the most beautiful sunset in his entire life. In the distance, sun is slowly hiding behind the buildings of La Defense district, painting the sky with every shade of orange and red he can possibly imagine. The Eiffel Tower is bathed with delicate fog and soft, pure gold lighting.

  
He knows that exact term referring to that phenomenon is called the golden hour. He doesn’t feel like a person who can do something creative with that information, more than scientifically explain the indirection of lighting in that time. It doesn’t prevent him from admiring the warm, golden scene though. He just wishes his friends can create something beautiful out of it.

  
It can be one more drawing of Enjolras, bathed with golden gleams, sitting in his new favorite place on earth, which is Grantaire’s window seat. He can easily imagine that with his eyes closed; Enjolras would smile, blushing, and Grantaire would be the happiest man in the world, having the possibility to draw the other man.

  
It can be also one more stunning photo done by Feuilly. He can always find some very high and very hard to climb place in Paris, from where he can do magic with his old camera, in the same time sharing a cigarette with Bahorel. Combeferre is always happy to see the works of art done by them.

 

Trying to lay more comfortably, Combeferre realizes he can’t remember the last time he had a spare moment to contemplate the nature or the evening alone. From the roof nearby, the sounds of calming music and cheerful conversations can be easily heard. His neighbors have more luck than he has; they can make parties in their huge roof-which-could-also-be-a-terrace. He’s trying not to complain though, he likes his small piece of lying surface. And those noise, mixed with the traffic sounds, soothe him today, after the long day full of studying and hospital practice.

  
Even looking at all of the beautiful things, he could never forget that next to him lays someone even more beautiful than any piece of art, no matter how inspiring today’s golden hour is.

 

Combeferre can feel the warm, the gaze focused on him, but he is not capable of looking in that direction yet. He knows what can he see there; soft, golden skin, covered with thousands of tiny freckles, always accompanied by a radiant smile. He knows all of that too much; spends too much time looking when nobody supposed to, thinking about the ideal parts, forming the masterpiece.

 

He finally looks up when he feels soft fingers on his left palm and starts to study how that golden skin wonderfully contrasts with his dark one. There is so much left unspoken between them, Combeferre can feel the tiresome tension around, but has no courage to fix it.

  
“You can’t be mad at me any longer, can you?”, he hears Courfeyrac saying.

  
They haven’t been talking more than week now, which, given the fact that they’re living in the same apartment and they’re friends since high school, is very long. If you add the fact that Combeferre is in love with Courfeyrac since always, it doesn’t look any better. And that is not the main reason, but at the same time is, why exactly they’re not talking.

 

“It’s not that I’m mad at you, Courf”, he says, unconsciously linking their fingers together. 

 

He isn’t. He got mad because Courfeyrac went on a date a week ago, but the anger quickly passed. It’s not Courfeyrac’s fault that he wants to find true love. Combeferre understands that, or tries to. And that this love is not Combeferre, even if he thinks it maybe should be.

 

“I don’t have any right to be mad at you” he tries, once again, “and I am not, because it’s not your fault you’re trying to love someone...”, he continues, because he feels it’s the time when some things need to be said.

  
“Maybe it’s not my fault”, Courfeyrac says, without a smile. “But from the moment I accepted that date invitation I’m feeling as if I’m doing something bad to you”.

 

“I’m sorry, Courf, that you’re feeling like that…”, Combeferre starts, trying not to pay attention to the sound of laughter reaching them from the roof nearby.

  
“It’s not because you got mad, Ferre”, he stops him. “But because something started to be serious between us, and then you suddenly backed away… so, I thought I need to move on. But I can’t.”

 

He knows what Courfeyrac is talking about. He is glad, in some way, that he said that aloud. He was always bad with “love” thing, especially when it comes to somebody so close to his heart.

 

“I got hurt then, you know? When you just stopped returning my affection. I didn’t tell you, because I thought you don’t give a shit about what’s started to happening between us... I know now that wasn’t true, but that’s not the deal here; and it’s not, because I didn’t know it from you”, he stops there, thinking, with putting his lips between his sharp teeth.

  
“I guess Feuilly told you?”, Combeferre is blushing, feeling ashamed.

  
“Of course he did”, Courfeyrac smiles brightly.  


Combeferre is quiet for a moment.

 

“I stopped, because I lost the ability of telling which of your actions are platonic, and which are not”, Courfeyrac is affectionate with every of his friends, always, and it’s hard to tell which of the moments are platonic. “I started to worry that one day I’ll do something you don’t want me to do, because I’ll read some of your actions wrong”

  
Combeferre feels exactly like that now. His emotions mixed because of fingers stroking the tattoos on his arm, sending shivers down his spine.

 

“How do you read my actions?”, Courfeyrac ask, abandoning his previous movements. His eyes are glowing like the sun reflecting in a clean window. “And what can you do to upset me?”

  
Combeferre can feel the blush creeping on his neck. He stays silent for some time, trying to force himself to saying things he was trying to never says aloud.

  
“I never know if you really want to cuddle with me in more than friendly way, or you really want to kiss me…”, he stops, looking as Courfeyrac absentmindedly tries to fix the fringe messily pinned with red bobby pins. “I want that, you know… kissing your forehead… or telling you…”, he can’t say it like that, when that beautiful man sits next to him, obscuring the whole world.

 

But he is the whole world to Combeferre right now, with all of the golden rays of sunshine playing with his hair, with the new, fascinated smile on his lips and fire in the sky behind him.

Maybe Courfeyrac sees something similar in him, because he looks with the same intensity at him and closes the distance between them.

  
The kiss is soft and warm, Combeferre’s fingers easily finding the way to Courfeyrac’s hair. It’s also short, but not unsatisfying, especially because when Combeferre somehow forces himself to open his eyes, he sees the most beautiful smile in the entire universe.

  
“Or telling you that I love you”, he finishes whispering, feeling the most intoxicating happiness in his entire life.

  
“I hope you do understand now that I don’t want any of that to be platonic, and I never wanted to”, Courfeyrac says quietly, pulling Combeferre’s glasses off. “I’m sorry it looked like that to you, but it won’t anymore”

 

Combeferre can just nod. Next thing he experiences is the blurry sky of golden and soft kisses. Even if he knows the golden hour doesn’t have any clearly defined duration, he will remember that evening as the best memory he could ever had.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It looks nice and has better english than ever only thanks to my favorite person (and beta) ever, Mirella.


End file.
